


Homemade

by LazyBaker



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Deputy Steve Harrington, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Woodsman Billy Hargrove, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21596203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: “We got some trouble up in the woods with your boy.” Hopper tells him and that’s all he needs to say for Steve’s pulse to kick and for sweat to start percolating on his forehead.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 51
Kudos: 539





	Homemade

Another slow day as one of the two deputies of Hawkins, Indiana ends. It’s five and Steve’s shift is over. Already he’s thinking how he can weasel another home-cooked meal out of Robin, if she’ll fall for the _sad and single_ line for a third time this week or if he’ll have to pull out the big guns and go for _you know, I won’t be seeing any of my family this year for Christmas because I’m a child of divorce and my parents are assholes_.

She usually has a limit of two dinners before she starts in on Steve needing to learn to cook for himself. Living on take-out and Krispy Kreme at thirty is how he’ll end up needing a triple bypass. She’s threatened to give the world’s worst eulogy at his wake.

Steve reminding her he’s _only_ 28 isn’t exactly his best comeback, but it’s all he’s got. So.

Robin’s overdramatic. Likes to make a big thing out of everything. She also likes to make pancake-waffle sandwiches for dinner. There are quite a few nights when Steve is picking at a greasy burrito he got from Joe’s diner a block from his apartment where he wishes he’d been born a girl. He’d have a girlfriend by now.

Steve’s popping the top buttons on his standard issue uniform shirt, already gearing up his saddest and mopiest puppy dog eyes for Robin—he’s even got the tears going today, he’s that hungry—when Hopper calls for him from his office.

It could mean a real emergency or it could be about the donut incident from this morning. Hopper’s real good at holding grudges over food and Steve manages to catch himself in the middle of a lot them.

Hopper’s a little grayer than he was a half hour ago. He’s leaning back in his chair, but he’s tense, holding a radio to his stomach, tapping on it.

“We got some trouble up in the woods with your boy.” Hopper tells him and that’s all he needs to say for Steve’s pulse to kick and for sweat to start percolating on his forehead.

“Got it.” Steve grabs his jacket. Checks his gun. Is almost out the door when Robin stops him.

She’s geared up to go. Always is. She dresses like Hawkins is on the brink of disaster every day, always on the lookout, her ear to the ground, her finger on the trigger, her boots permanently in the shit, and constantly disappointed.

For the last decade Hawkins has been the most boring, ordinary little town in middle America.

“Want me to come with?” Robin’s eager. Bouncing on her feet. Steve shakes his head, puts his hat on. Tries to be the _cool guy_ who’s never known panic despite the rush, the impatience, the need to get to his truck and into the woods.

“Nah.” Steve says. “I got this. Besides, you know how he is—I mean,” flustered, he flaps around, “just, you know?”

Robin slumps and Steve doesn’t have time to feel too bad for her.

She says, “he doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t like anyone.”

“He likes you.”

Steve shrugs, unsure what to say to that. Brushes it off like when Hopper says _your boy_. Ignores the look Robin’s giving him outright, the honesty she’s demanding from him that he can’t give her.

So he smiles. Plays up the old Harrington _King of Hawkins High_ attitude. It’s a classic. Robin will get annoyed and distracted and Steve can go on his merry way.

He puts his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll put in a good word for ya, champ.”

—

Deep in the Indiana forest, Steve pulls off the familiar stretch of dirt road to park his truck under the tree that he’d put three notches in back when things were still new enough to forget. The rest of the way he has to go on foot, so he books it and crosses off all the possibilities he’d thought of on the drive here that could be the reason for Billy using his radio that had cobwebs on it the last time Steve had caught a glimpse of it.

There’s no smoke. There’s no flood. There’s no yelling or shouting, but Billy’s the type to go off to the woods and _die_ without so much as a howdy-do-da-day, so Steve pushes himself through the dark, swallowing shadows, concentrates on the ground underneath him, a hard to see dirt path even in the daylight he’s made himself over the years of coming up here.

Ten years and he’s still twitchy when it comes to walking through the forest at night.

He’s panting, has big patches of sweat under his arms, turning his jacket into a swamp when he finally breaks through the trees and sees the cabin, the garden, the two goats bleating _hey_ when he runs passed and the warm light inside shining through the windows. Doesn’t stop until his toes hit the wood steps of the porch and he’s looking up at Billy Hargrove, just as big and imposing dressed in his worn flannel shirt and ripped jeans as he’d been last week when Steve had come by and Billy hadn’t deigned to glance his way once.

Not even last week. Four days ago.

Billy’s gone and fucked up their routine before Steve did and Steve did _not_ see that coming.

Steve stops short from asking _what the hell, man?_ when he spots the bundle of blankets in Billy’s arms, the way he’s holding them, cradling them, like there’s something in there, like he’s being cautious and careful not to drop or hold too tight whatever’s inside.

Billy’s got that lost look in his eyes that only ever crops up on his Bad Days.

“What happened?” Steve says softly, knowing, somehow, that’s what’s needed from him. Whisper quiet softness. Dread and anxiety fill up inside him. "Who’s this?” He says, remarkably stable. One of them has to be, after all.

Slowly, Steve reaches out towards the blankets, nudges them aside to see a tiny furry face.

“A puppy.” Steve says, breathing out the words on a relieved sigh. A cute, furry, tiny, _tiny_ little puppy. “You didn’t tell me you were pregnant.”

Billy rolls his eyes and once they’re back on Steve, the message is clear. _You’re a dumbass_.

“Where’d you find her?”

“Up north.” Billy says. He shifts the bundle and then Steve is suddenly holding this tiny and cute puppy and Billy is grabbing his coat, his backpack, and a flashlight, jumping down the steps of the porch and heading towards the woods without a goddamn word.

“Excuse me?” Steve whispers as loudly as the word allows, grabs Billy by his elbow. Billy, thankfully, actually listens to him and stops. Steve says, as if Billy hasn’t been living out in the woods for any particular reason at all, “Billy, it’s _dark_.”

Billy turns his flashlight on and shines it in Steve’s eyes. Steve shoves it away and glares at him.

“I’m gonna see if I missed any, if there are more of’m. They won’t last the night otherwise.” Billy says, simple and to the point. Plain and honest and wanting to do some good.

Steve squeezes Billy’s elbow. Feels his bones, his muscles that have grown bigger and stronger living on his own for a third of his life.

He’ll be fine. He's strong and he'll be fine. As fine as Billy Hargrove gets these days anyways.

“If you’re not back in two hours, I’m calling in the dogs.” Steve says. Says it with too much earnestness and thought and care. After an hour, he’ll be calling for Robin and Hopper on the radio. In two, he’ll be hollering for El. Anything more than that, Steve’s going to start losing his chill.

Billy puts his hand over Steve’s, pulls Steve off of him gently. Holds his hand just a second more than he needs to. Steve could be making it up. Seeing it wrong. Processing it _wrong_. Perception’s a funky bitch. Steve’s had plenty of concussions to prove it.

“There’s some milk warmed up inside to feed her.” Billy says and then he’s off, into the woods, leaving Steve behind to watch for the light of his flashlight bouncing off tree trunks until he’s disappeared into the wild darkness.

Steve stands there on the porch holding his breath, wanting to catch up to Billy, to help, to at least give him his gun and knows he can’t because he doesn’t know for certain what Billy might do with it.

The cute and tiny and smallest of small puppies is still asleep.

—

Steve had never been in the cabin before. It was off limits. He’d sat on Billy’s hammock twice and _that_ had been pushing it. He’d only done it to annoy Billy into acknowledging his existence, noticing him. Steve wondered when their relationship had flipped and he’d become the obnoxious one, the _in your face_ guy, the _wagging his tongue all up and down the dirt road to get a reaction_ kind of man he now is.

Steve doesn’t _do_ being ignored. It’s not in his skillset. He can handle someone being a dick to him, but being ignored—it’s just not for him. Never has been, never will be.

It’s why he kept coming back at first. Curiosity and stubbornness and unwanted pity and an inexplicable urge to _help_ and then—

_And then._

Inside, it’s _warm_. Not just _chase the winter chill away_ warm, but there are drawings and carvings and books everywhere. Big rolls of paper. Sketchpads and canvases. Cups of pencils and paint brushes and pastels. Stacks of books lining the walls. Blocks of wood and whittling knives on a desk next to a wind up radio. A bed pushed against the wall with a quilt over it. A wood burning stove, one of those old ones that Steve used to see on field trips to experience how the pilgrims lived. A fucking _lantern_.

The cabin’s small and lived in and cramped and so wonderfully _warm_.

Steve’s throat tightens as he looks around at the life Billy’s built and been holding so close to his chest. Ten years. Ten whole years and he finally gets to see.

He paces the room. Peers at the carvings—oohs and aws over a rose and what he thinks is the beginnings of a person. Examines the drawings he can look at without moving. Billy would notice and he doesn’t want to push his luck just when he’s finally got it.

His excitement plummets once he sees what the drawings really are.

The same faces, over and over. A tall spidery shadow. A grotesque lumping monster.

Steve rubs at his eyes. Runs a hand through his hair and gives it a comforting tug. He spots a bottle of milk by the stove on a small table. He takes it and sits in front of the fire, warming himself and the itsy bitsy little puppy.

The cabin’s small, built from the ground up where a blue tent used to be.

Once, Billy had died and come back and then gone off into the woods to die again for good.

Steve doesn’t know what to do or how to feel and yet he feels a lot of things anyways.

When the puppy starts to squirm awake, Steve awkwardly gets her into position where she can drink and presses the nipple of the bottle to her mouth. It takes a few moments before she latches on.

Steve sighs. Relieved. Bops her on the nose when she’s done.

“I bet he’s gonna name you somethin’ totally silly.” Steve whispers to her. She’s already fallen back to sleep. “Like—like Elvira or _Starchild_. Ugh, can you imagine?”

Steve feeds the cutest and most adorable littlest puppy when she wakes up. He watches her doze off. He counts the minutes on his watch. He stares out the window at the tree line where Billy had disappeared into and tries to will him back into existence.

An hour passes. Then two. Then _three_.

Steve’s giving Billy the benefit of the doubt. He’s lived out here all on his own just fine. Nothing happens in Hawkins anymore. It’s all ordinary. Normal. Everything is fine. No monsters. No anything. Just guilt and trauma and awkward, fumbling attempts at friendship.

Steve busies himself, lays out more blankets on the floor, rolls up some blankets and uses a few books to create a short fence if the tiniest puppy decides to wander and wiggle around.

He watches out the window, pressing his nose to the cold glass, and waits and feels his hair grow grey in the meantime and he should just radio Hopper—at the very least _Robin_. She’ll be worried he hasn’t called her to check in yet. She likes to know Billy hasn’t murdered him.

But Billy doesn’t like to be fussed over. He can barely stand it when Steve visits. He’ll ban Steve from coming over for a month if Steve does the wrong thing like trying to send for help.

—

Billy’s covered in mud. Head to toe. All over his face, his beard. He’s got dirt lodged under his fingernails. He kicks his boots off by the porch. He won’t look Steve in the eye. He won’t look at Steve at all.

Steve follows him around the back of the cabin to the water tank. Watches Billy fill a bucket up and then throw it far, _far_ into the forest, hearing a dull thud as it hits a tree. Billy wraps his arms around himself. Tries to turn himself small. Shivers in his own hold.

Steve’s hand hovers over his back. Unsure. Wanting. Pictures what Billy found out there to come back like this. It wouldn’t be nothing and it wouldn’t be good or pretty or anything close to either one.

Steve clears his throat. Let’s his hand fall between Billy’s shoulders. Says with all the softness he can, “let’s get you cleaned up, big guy.”

Steve grabs another bucket. Fills it. The water’s icy. He grabs a rag and dips it in. As new as the inside of the cabin had been for him, outside is familiar. He tilts Billy’s chin up with just a finger, limits how much he’s touching him, and wipes at his face, scrubs the mud away from his beard, Billy’s eyes shining painfully in the moonlight are filled with hurt.

Billy’s out here for a reason. Has quarantined himself from people and everything to do with people for so many dumb, ridiculous, heartaching reasons and Steve’s read up on PTSD the first time he’d heard the term, what he can do, what he shouldn’t do—recognizes his own night terrors and stresses and shit that takes up too much room inside him all too well—and tries his best to give Billy space and still be one support he has when he really needs one.

Billy won’t talk to Max. Won’t take help from Hopper or Joyce. Steve’s weaseled his way into Billy’s life. Held out the longest. Doesn’t have kids or much of a life to be distracted by and finds he doesn’t mind. He likes coming out here. Likes the quiet. Likes Billy grunting at him. Likes to get Billy smiling the few times he has. Likes watching Billy growing and changing from that boy in the blue tent.

Steve cleans under Billy’s nails with his own. Scrapes out the dirt and the gunk. Billy’s hands shake in his. His tremor’s back or maybe he’s just cold so Steve tries to rope Billy’s mind from wherever it is and tug him back, tells him about his day, about Robin lamenting the lack of available women and refusing to go to the gay bar Steve found because she’s _too awkward for that_ , about Hopper deciding he’s _finally_ going to take a vacation after years of talking about it, about the cat Steve had to retrieve from a roof because the fire department refused to deal with Mr. Grumpy one more time and the scratches he’s got all over his arms being worth the homemade cookies Mr. Zaborowski baked for him that Billy would _totally_ love, how he accidentally ate Hopper’s favorite donut today and that it wasn’t exactly an accident because Hopper’s always playing favorites and Steve’s never managed to be at the top of the two-deputy list.

It’s easy to talk to Billy. Rambling on about his day. Boring and dumb and not at all interesting, but Billy listens. Usually grunts or calls him an _idiot_ in that kind of fond not really meaning it way. Especially likes it when Steve can get a laugh out of Billy. It happens more often lately. A quick breathy huff. Not like the barking, loud laugh he used to have in high school. Something softer. Different.

Comparing him to who he used to be—Billy’s just _different_.

Steve leads Billy inside, hand wrapped around his wrist. The goats bleat _goodnight_ at them. Billy hesitates at the door, his eyes on the smallest puppy lying still on the floor, asleep on the blankets. Steve touches Billy’s nape, squeezes, rubs at the back of his neck. Some of the tension goes away, that hesitation, the caution, the gnawing guilt moves onto the back burner for later.

One day, Billy’s going to tell him all kinds of things. He’s gonna start talking and Steve will be there to listen like Billy’s listened for him. Steve just knows it.

While Billy changes out of his muddy clothes. Steve watches him take his shirt off, sees the glint of his necklace sitting on old scars on a strong chest. Looks unabashedly. Catches Billy’s eyes when he reaches for his belt, his fly, and then Steve turns around. There’s pushing it and then there’s _pushing it_.

Steve keeps vigil over the tiniest and most likely cutest puppy. Pets at her little head with his finger. Billy sits next to him, their knees bump together and stay pressed against each other.

They sit there in the quiet watching her. The only sounds the crackling of the fire. The groans of the cabin as it settles. Billy’s fingers drum on the floor. He doesn’t reach out to pet her, so Steve does it for him. Runs two fingers lightly down her back. Billy’s going to keep her. He practically feeds half the forest already. Hawkins’ very own Disney Princess.

“What’re you gonna name her?” Steve says.

Billy’s takes a moment to answer, his hands locked around his crossed ankles. His hair is down and spills over his shoulders.

“Diablo.” Billy settles on. Nods to himself.

“No.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.” Steve says. “This is a little lady. You gotta name her something cute. You already got Machete and Excalibur. Think _cute_.”

“Think cute, huh.” Billy mumbles.

“Like, bubblegum or—or princess.”

Billy’s nose scrunches up. Steve wants to bop him. Billy probably won’t bite him. Too hard. Maybe.

“Stevie.” Billy says and pauses and Steve’s heart _skips_ like an asshole who got himself into this mess and then Billy continues with a smirk that’s familiar and all too nice to see again, “Nicks. Stevie Nicks.”

“Such a dick.” Steve says and bops Billy on the nose.

**Author's Note:**

> I just love the idea of Billy living in the cabin from Kiki's Delivery Service.  
>   
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


End file.
